


Bookshop Boyfriends

by a-angelus13 (MyChemicalEnd)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, bookshop au, it's angst but fluff, they're married morons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 19:47:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19979518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyChemicalEnd/pseuds/a-angelus13
Summary: Aziraphale finds a new book in his bookshop. Crowley isn't pleased.





	Bookshop Boyfriends

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I never said I'd be writing /decent/ works. I just said I'd be writing. I know this is subpar, but hey, it's content?

Aziraphale pointedly turned around the sign that had gleefully announced ‘we are open!’, watching the last few customers in his bookshop miraculously return books to shelves and realise that yes, they were suddenly running rather late to business meetings or late to school pick-up time (after all, it was 3:27 in the afternoon: Aziraphale would hate for anyone to find his opening hours convenient). A few harsh stares and forced smiles later, and the angel was left alone for the evening. He looked around, noticing the leaning piles of books and loose papers drifting along the floor.

“Well,” he thought aloud, “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to tidy a little. There’s plenty of time before Crowley gets here”

It would’ve been all too easy to blame the mess on careless customers: teenagers who left books shoved sneakily upon meticulously arranged bookshelves; or children who half read pages and plonked them, spine up, upon the desk in the corner. However, most of the papery chaos was down to Aziraphale’s own hoarding tendencies.

Of course, he knew where everything was, and of course not a single page was stained, or torn, or bent out of place. Every last book was pristine as if they had been printed yesterday (volumes from centuries ago had shown a resilience to the passing of time, and hadn’t yellowed even a jot in that time. The angel couldn’t stand to let them wither when he could stop it happening.)

The issue was, it was getting rather too much for Aziraphale to try and tip-toe around the debris every day, or constantly warning Crowley to ‘Please be careful dear, they’re heavier than they look’ every time the demon leaned against the make-shift towers that lined the back room (most Thursday evenings, in fact).

Aziraphale headed to the back room, certain that would be the easiest place to start. After all, it was a small space, away from the public and really couldn’t be that bad, right? He looked at his pocket watch.

“There’s still a few hours, I can make a start. I’m sure it won’t take long.” 

***

Outside, on the busy Soho street, a vintage Bentley skidded to a halt outside the corner bookshop. It was 7pm, and a table for two sat waiting booked for a Mr A. J. Crowley at 7:30 on the other side of London. Crowley wasn’t worried about making it in time, the Bentley was capable of it. What he was worried about, was that he’d called his dinner companion roughly 37 times in the last hour and hadn’t gotten a response once. He didn’t worry about anything as a general rule but certain... events had made him rather wary.

Imagine his relief to find the bookshop intact and without any trace of charring, or ash or anything else unterward. He breezed in: the doors opened and went back to being locked instantly (despite the fact that Aziraphale had offered him a spare key a few decades ago, and Crowley had declined. He had a real flare for the dramatic, and besides, Hell was generally in favour of breaking and entering).

“Aziraphale? I tried to call you!”

No response.

“Aziraphale?”

Crowley walked round to the back room, trying to hide that he felt somewhat frantic. He needn’t have. Aziraphale was sat, surrounded by a mound of books and three mugs of cocoa of varying temperatures. He was holding a rather small and unremarkable book with no title or author on the cover. In fact, all the cover had on was a gold embossed snake in the bottom right hand corner. Crowley froze.

“Angel, where did you get that?”

Aziraphale, startled by both the presence and icy tone of the voice, looked up. He was rather engrossed in what he had found, and had been reading for the last three hours. The tidying had been put on hold instantly after he had started. The journal had fallen out of a pile right where he’d started and he’d not had a chance to go any further.

“Crowley dear, is it that time already? Oh, I got carried away. I found this really rather fascinating litt-”

He broke off, as Crowley strode across the room, knocking over one mug of cocoa and many books, and snatched the journal clean out of the angel’s hands.

“Where did you find it?” Crowley hissed. Aziraphale gave him a puzzled look. It was in his bookshop, and he’d only had a little glance at it. What was Crowley’s problem?

“It was just in this pile, dear. I don’t know why you’re getting so-” 

“You can’t just, just take things… or, or read things that aren’t yours! That’s stealing!”

Aziraphale got rather huffy when it was implied that he wasn’t, well, being angelic. He got rather huffy when Crowley started yelling at him like he’d purposefully tried to do something less-than-perfect.

“I don’t know why it’s any of your concern, Crowley! I wasn’t stealing it, I was only reading it!”

Crowley growled and stormed out of the room, managing to cause even more chaos than he already had (Aziraphale instantly gave up any kind of hope of ever managing to tidy his shop, but he did manage to ‘clean’ up the spilled cocoa on the rug as he marched after the demon).

“Crowley, please! Talk to me!”  
Crowley stopped dead, clutching the journal in one hand, tight enough to tear the leather at the edges. There had been very few times Aziraphale had seen Crowley well and truly angry, the last time being 1862, and this was paled in comparison to the way the demon’s eyes were glowing with pure rage. Fear of god? More like fear of Crowley.

“It’s mine, angel.”

Aziraphale went to place a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, then thought better of it when he saw the smoke rising faintly from the old leather.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t,” he sighed, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Crowley was frozen in front of him, like a terrifying statue. Aziraphale continued, softly.

“I’d never realised you kept a journal. You never told me, dear.”

The angel stepped forward, placing a hand on Crowley’s arm, trying to ignore how burning hot his skin felt.

“It would seem like you never told me about a lot of things, Crowley. And I’m sorry, truly I am.”

Crowley softened and turned to look at Aziraphale. The angel looked so guilty and sad, Crowley couldn’t find it in him to feel upset anymore. He hated being vulnerable, and he hated that Aziraphale probably knew a lot more about his feelings than he was comfortable sharing, but the pure concern and love on the angel’s face wiped away his anger. The journal stopped smouldering, his skin returned to a normal human-like temperature and his eyes ceased to appear like a reflection of hellfire.

The journal hit the floor. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around the demon, his demon (according to what he’d read that afternoon) and gathered him to his chest.

“You’re such an old silly, my dear. Did you think I’d be upset if you had said something?”

There was no response from Crowley, except the silent tear or two falling onto the angel’s collar, and the hands clutching at his frock coat (if you’d have asked, this most definitely never happened). Aziraphale pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead and gently suggested they stayed home for dinner.

“We could order in? Do you suppose anywhere sells crepes?”


End file.
